


Sink Water

by enthroned



Series: Blame It (On The Alcohol) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Hangover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthroned/pseuds/enthroned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is hungover and Derek has to deal with him (again).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sink Water

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, this would have been a direct continuation of one of the first Teen Wolf things that I wrote. Considering that was written over a year ago and Derek is all grown up and living in a loft (and yet still making poor life choices), it made more sense to just set this during some undetermined point in the future. So, instead, I decided to group the two works in a collection that is connected by Stiles' forays into bottles of alcohol. That being said, you obviously don't have to read part one in order to understand part two.
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. If you see any, please feel free to point them out so I can fix them!
> 
> The title is yanked from Luke Bryan's song "I'm Hungover."

The sun had already started to trickle in through the blinds, tempting the shadows out to play, and the birds were just beginning their morning symphony. Stiles wanted to personally shoot every bird in Beacon Hills. He knew where his father kept his pistol when he was off duty. Or maybe he could pluck all of their little feathers from their tiny, adorable bodies and make himself a sweater. Yes, that sounded like an even better plan. Stiles would get right on that. 

Just as soon as he could convince himself that his head wasn’t going to explode. Or implode, which, at the moment, seemed more likely. Of course it did. His body’s sole mission in life was torture Stiles and Stiles alone. Why would it risk possibly injuring someone else or, the horror, causing costly property damage that the town (or his poor father) would wind up paying for once he met his untimely demise? Implosion it was. Write up the obituary now. Stiles added that to his mental to-do list, right after: 1. Drag self out of this very comfortable bed and, 2. Find a spell that would at least render all birds mute. 

3\. Type up own obituary, send to all newspapers within a three county radius. Death by brain implosion. How tragic. Shakespeare hadn’t even been this cruel to Hamlet. 

“Am I interrupting your self-pity party in here?” That voice was too loud for this early in the morning and too amused to be Derek at any time of the day. Stiles answered with a low groan and, even with his head tucked underneath a pillow, he could still feel Derek’s eyes as they rolled in his general direction. 

After all of three seconds later – literally three seconds, couldn’t Derek turn off the werewolf theatrics before 8 o’clock in the morning – the bed dipped to one side as Derek settled down on the edge of the mattress. Stiles, who generally prided himself on his ability to keep up with those ridiculous werewolf reflexes, didn’t even have a moment to react before the pillow was wrenched off of his head and dropped to its doom on the floor. Though he pressed his face into the sheets and squeezed his eyes shut, it did little to block out the sun or Derek’s seriously judgmental eyebrows.

With his fingers forming makeshift blinders of either side of his face, Stiles grumbled, “Go ‘way.” Or, at least, that was how the words sounded in his head. Squashed against the mattress, he couldn’t be certain that Derek heard anything other than the rather pathetic whimper that was tacked on to the end of his command. 

His demands were met with a low chuckle, a sound that he could almost feel rumble throughout the room. It rattled around Stiles’ brain, cutting through the fog that had settled there in his sleep for just a second. And then, in a tone that was almost an extension of the laugh, Derek said, “I don’t think so. Can you sit up?”

“Can I sit up?” Stiles scoffed, mildly offended even as his fingers attempted to rub the throbbing pain out of his temples. “Derek, I am an adult. I helped you fend off a school of very pissed off mermaids last week. I learned to drive stick when I was fifteen, for Christ’s sake. Yes, I think I am fully capable of sitting up.” By the time he was finished, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth and he was about to ask if he’d made the mistake of swallowing sandpaper recently.

Before he could, Derek asked, “And what are you doing now?”

“Lying down.” Which was, Stiles knew, very much not the same as sitting in an upright position. He was at the top of his class with a double major in mythology and biology, with enough credits to earn him a third in philosophy if his university ever wanted to reward him and his constant need for _just a little more_ information with that. He knew the difference between sitting and not sitting.

And he would have stayed in his very prone position for the remainder of the day, given the choice. He wasn’t offered such an option and, instead, Stiles found himself being hauled up by the scruff of his neck. Poising himself to remind his somewhat forgetful boyfriend that he wasn’t, in fact, a wolf pup and therefore wasn’t built to be carried around in such a manner, Stiles cut himself off when he was presented with a glass of water. To him, it looked like an oasis in the middle of the desert. He could kiss Derek, and he sincerely would have, if he didn’t already have the glass tipped back against his lips. The water tasted a little too metallic, but Stiles wasn’t about to battle with the landlord over it today. 

Stiles only parted with the glass when he’d completely emptied it, offering it back to Derek, who placed it on the nightstand. “May I have some more?” He croaked, rubbing at his throat as he attempted to settle himself back down on the bed. “Preferably with about ten bottles of Advil? Please?”

His pursuit of the pillows that remained on the mattress was thwarted as Derek pushed his shoulders back against the headboard. Stiles shielded his eyes from the rude rays of sun that refused to just get out and stay out, but he still managed to catch the tiny smile on the other man’s face. Derek was enjoying this far too much.

“Do I look like I have even one bottle of Advil, Stiles?” He didn’t need to see Derek’s face to know that he was already raising an eyebrow, which always formed the question mark at the end of Derek’s queries. Then, to answer the question himself, he said, “ _Werewolf_.”

This time, it was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. Or, it would have been, had his eyes not betrayed him and closed the moment he settled back against the headboard. Still, the sentiment was there. 

“Right, werewolf,” he answered, reaching one hand out to blindly pat at Derek’s chest in a sarcastically proud gesture, as if the man had just discovered his tendency to grow claws and fangs and sideburns on the full moon for the first time. If he hadn’t grown out of reciting dog jokes by the time he'd graduated from Beacon Hills High, he might have called Derek a good boy. His hand missed its mark, however, and wound up batting at what he knew was Derek’s cheek. The stubble gave it away. “Werewolf with a very human, very much in pain boyfriend. Werewolf with a very cranky, very wounded boyfriend.”

“You’re hungover, not wounded.”

“The alcohol wounded me, Derek!” Stiles’ voice was too loud for his own ears, and he winced at the sound of it. “No yelling,” he said, as if he had to reprimand Derek for that. He patted his fingers along the man’s jaw and repeated, “No yelling.”

The laugh was back, though it was softer this time, and Stiles was sure that the entire empty room didn’t get to hear it. With his eyes still closed, he felt Derek shift closer on the bed, the heat of his body stretching from Stiles’ hair to the arches of his bare feet. When he mentally berated his eyes until they opened again, he didn’t need to look down at Derek’s mouth to know that the laugh had left behind a smile in its wake.

“Werewolf,” Derek echoed himself, his voice fond as he leaned forward to press his forehead to Stiles’. His palm cradled the back of Stiles’ head and his fingers curled through his hair, as if he needed to make sure that they would stay like this, at least for a little while.

As far as Stiles was concerned, they could stay like this all day, especially if it meant lolling in bed and using Derek’s broad shoulders to keep the sun away. He made a show of rolling his shoulders and settling his hip a little closer to Derek’s own. Stiles wasn’t going anywhere. Derek flexed his fingers through the dark strands of Stiles’ hair and, as the pain from his head traveled up Derek’s knuckles and wrist and arm, Stiles grinned and found himself repeating, “Werewolf.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://pjransones.tumblr.com), where I reblog too much Teen Wolf and cry about Stiles' face in tags.


End file.
